‘Right. Is it a similar operation up at Dingli as here?’ Elsie asked, scanning around the barren room.
Skinner screwed up his face. ‘Worse. One man runs the show there—a civilian.’
‘Oh dear. And what happens to the intelligence once it’s been intercepted?’
‘The chap at Dingli telephones through to the Port W/T Officer at Valletta.’
‘Right. Then what?’
‘Then the message is written down and a runner sends it to the controller of the Operations Room.’
Elsie grimaced. The operations on the island were worse than the early days at Hawkinge. It was little wonder that so many enemy raiders were attacking the island without any recourse. ‘Do you have any of your log books from the past few days that I could look at?’
Skinner jumped up and headed to the only other item of furniture in the room—a metal filing cabinet. He pulled open the two doors and Elsie caught sight of an assortment of jumbled files, notebooks and ledgers. Skinner ran his finger along the run of haphazard material, then pulled at something which caused an avalanche of paperwork to tumble to the floor. ‘Damn it,’ he mumbled, turning towards Elsie with a notebook. ‘Here’s my logs from the last couple of days.’
She took the book and, holding it beneath the lamplight, began to read. Behind her, Skinner was groping around on the floor, picking up the loose papers.
Elsie immediately recognised code words and familiar Luftwaffe units that had been moved from bases in northern France out to Sicily. As she read on, she was struck by an odd sensation of warm familiarity, as if learning something of an old friend.
Skinner returned. ‘Do you mind if I carry on?’
‘Go ahead, absolutely.’
Skinner placed his headset on and began making tiny movements of the dial on the set in front of him, whilst Elsie read on through the logs. The only sound to be heard in the room was the distant howling of the siren.
The hour passed quickly, if it had even been that long. Shorter returned with a dramatic bursting open of the door. Inside, Elsie had jumped, but was determined not to show it. She looked up nonchalantly from her reading, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment, before falling back to the page in front of her.
‘Time to go,’ he said.
‘I need to visit the Royal Navy Station at Dingli,’ Elsie answered, closing the log book.
‘Impossible. I’ve got to get back. Do as you please tomorrow and thereafter—just keep out of the way.’
Elsie turned to Skinner and shook his hand. ‘Thank you very much—you’ve been really helpful.’
She followed Shorter out of the building, knowing that she was going to have her work cut out on the island. She shielded her eyes from the brightness of the day as they walked over to the Austin.
Under the shrill of the air raid siren that had continued throughout her time in the intercept room, Elsie thought that she heard the low drone of an aircraft. Squinting into the harsh sky, she searched for it. ‘What’s that noise?’
Shorter waved his hand dismissively. ‘Listen—I know this isn’t the lovely peaceful quiet Kentish countryside, but you’re going to have to learn to switch the sounds of sirens and kites off or you’ll never get anything done,’ he lectured as they reached the Austin. ‘I don’t even hear the sirens anymore.’
‘Get down!’ Elsie yelled, shoving Shorter to the floor violently, just as a lone Messerschmitt 109 zoomed low overhead, opening up his machine guns.
Elsie covered her head as the bullets ripped through the sandy soil exactly where they had just been standing.
Seconds later and the plane was just a blemish on the horizon.
‘Maybe you should start to hear the sirens, sir,’ Elsie said, picking herself up and brushing the dust from her uniform.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Morton opened his eyes, thankful that the migraine had, at some point during the night, removed its claws from his brain. He had returned home yesterday from Folkestone Library and crawled into bed with only a short passing conversation with Juliette, so desperate had he been for sleep to anesthetise his agonised head.
He sat up slowly and looked at the empty space beside him. Juliette had left a note on her pillow. Hope your head is better soon. Be good xx
He tried to stand but promptly slumped backwards onto the bed. He felt hung over. Ordinarily, he would have taken the day off but the wedding was in three days’ time, which meant that he had just two days to wrap up and solve the Finch Case. Not very likely, since he had yet to achieve a significant part of his task in discovering the identity of Barbara Finch’s father.
He hauled himself up and staggered over to the door. He was certain that, after a few large coffees, he would be able to get going again on the case. Downstairs, he found the energy to make a drink and some breakfast. After some time resting his head in the crook of his elbow, he felt life returning to his body, like blood flowing back into a numb limb.
He made himself another strong coffee and slowly made his way to the study at the top of the house.
Setting the cup down beside his laptop, he turned to the wall of evidence behind him. It was time.
Unhurriedly, he began to unstick every piece of evidence pertaining to his own family tree investigations. All the vital records, copies of letters and emails, all removed and stacked in a neat pile ready to take to America.
The vacant wall in front of him both saddened and pleased him. He turned his attention to his notepad and the folder bulging with paperwork concerning the Finch Case
